Definite
by unfold
Summary: He wakes up and it's easy. Jess. Defining his emotions. One shot. Reviews are a girl's best friend.


**A/N:** **What can I say? Jess makes me want to write hundreds and hundreds of oneshots about him. So, this was written. Angsty as hell. But, really, isn't that just the way Jess is? Yes. Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing my stuff. I truly, genuinely, honestly, appreciate it more than anything. Read on.**

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He wakes up and it's easy. 

Love (or possibly, the falling out process): The bitter taste building in the back of his throat. It is the taste of copper, blood. A mouthful of pennies every day that he opens his eyes. The burning feeling of bile. The pushing of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to rid himself of the flavor. The swallowing that does nothing to alleviate the problem.

(This is what she has become to him. Nothing more than an unsavory flavor creeping up his throat every morning. But, it is still a constant reminder of her smile, her skin, her mouth, her hair, her eyes. All in the form of this bitterness that stings.)

Regret (though he doesn't believe in them): The feeling in his stomach when he looks in the mirror. The way the sun blinds him when he walks outside. The hours and hours he spends asleep, because there is nothing else for him to do. Waking up and feeling like he is in a foreign place. The length of his fingernails, his hair, etc. The empty refrigerator. The mattress that acts as a bed. The lack of heat. The way his heart feels when he hears Luke's voice on his answering machine.

(It is the past, he tells himself. All of it is done and he cannot change it. He blames it on fate, on something cosmic, because he can't blame himself. He doesn't want to blame himself. It hurts too much, knowing that this is entirely his fault. So, it isn't.)

Loneliness: The city. The people. Having no one, yet being surrounded by everyone. Getting home from work to a pitch black apartment and not bothering to turn any lights on. The redheaded girl he sees every once in a while in the building. The smile she gives him and the indifferent look he gives her. The time she kissed him and he walked away. The times he's made love to her without saying a word. The days in the park, spent sitting and watching and hoping that when he gets home, the phone will ring.

(He thinks it is the plight of the city dweller, of the writer, etc. That being alone is something he will always have to deal with. The redheaded girl has a name, Anna. She calls him and tells him that she loves him. But, he feels nothing. Nothing but her skin against his. The truth is, he can't picture himself ever loving another person. He has seen what it does and he doesn't like it.)

Anger (something he is all too familiar with): The stinging behind his eyes when he feels the apartment walls moving closer and closer. The moment, weeks later, when he realized she was with him. The sudden flash of images in his mind, involving him and her. What he has felt for most, if not all, of his life. His father. His mother. The bus station. Leaving. The last time he touched her, really touched her. The year and a half that has passed and his inability to think of anything else. The fact that time hasn't changed a thing.

(And they always say that time heals wounds. It's bullshit and he knows it. Time is making things worse. He isn't mad at anyone. Just himself. This self loathing is slowly driving him insane and he almost thinks he likes it. He doesn't want to be sane anymore. He wants an excuse for the way he behaves.)

Depression: Alcohol burning his stomach at night. Admitting that this is what he's feeling. The dread that comes with each coming day. The shadows on the floor of the kitchen. The ringing hum of silence filling the apartment. The cold, biting wind of a winter surrounded by concrete and buildings. The slowly but surely fading memory of what her mouth felt like. What brought him to her that night, what caused such a desperate plea.

(A chemical imbalance. That's why he always felt like shit. That's why he asked her to come with him. He was unstable. He wanted something steady to keep him from falling even further into whatever it was he was falling into. A darkness, an abyss, a never ending string of days filled with nothing.)

Longing: Something he has learned to deal with. The constant ache somewhere between his stomach and his heart. The urge to touch any girl with dark hair or blue eyes or a small face or a similar name. The dreams he has in which she is there and she wants him, needs him. Waking up in a cold sweat and dry heaving into the toilet. The pull he gets when he walks by the train station, the bus station, a car with a Connecticut license plate. The tightness of his throat when he thinks that he has found the one, his other half, his _better _half, and he has lost her. The miles between here and there. The difference between the city and that small town. The passing thought that she is home.

(He loves her. It's that simple. There is no other way that he can think of to say it. Of course, those words don't seem to do this feeling justice. It is something more than love. It transcends love. He needs her. He thinks that he won't survive much longer like this. He is certain every breath is shorter than the last.)

Hope: The phone call made drunkenly at two in the morning. The forceful way he says, "Forgive me." The confused voice on the other end, "What? Jess?" And the eventual softly whispered, "Okay." The click of her hanging up the phone. The sober second phone call. The warmth of her voice as it travels down the line. The laugh. The easy conversation. His first real human contact in months. The almost fearful way she tells him, "God, I've missed you. This." The forgotten past, lying somewhere beneath his mattress.

(They are friends and nothing more and he doesn't mind at all. He doesn't see her. She doesn't come to visit. But, her voice is enough. And he is no longer insane and he is no longer at fault.)

Closure: Seeing her at the wedding with a new man. The way she smiles when he kisses her. The way she grips his hand beneath the table. The way he laughs affably with her grandparents. Her blinding happiness. The slow steps she takes when she approaches him later. The hand she places on his arm. The ring on her finger.

(He lets her go. Finally. And he breathes.)


End file.
